Truth and Consequence
by a tattered rose
Summary: Beginning the day after he quits, Grace and Dimitri's lives diverged. Out in the world, it's surprising how they parallel each other. But you know what they say about parallel lines? It ain't always true.
1. Chapter 1

Title:

Author:  a tattered rose

Rating:  PG-13?  If you can watch the show, you can read this.

Disclaimer:  Not mind.

Summary:  Doesn't Mr. Dimitri seem like the sort of teacher who would give out his e-mail address?

[If anyone notices, and is concerned, yep, this story is now labeled PG-13.  Nothing has changed, but on reflection, it *is* a controversial relationship…  Better safe than sorry, but again, if you watched it, reading this should not scar you for life.]

[I also fixed numerous, rather embarrassing errors.  I'll probably find more…  Sorry for the awkwardness.  I wrote this and posted on a whim, during a few hour stretch in the wee hours of the morning…  Never my strongest editing time.]

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Chapter 1

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He was gone.

The first time she finished "On Love" she cried until time had no meaning.  Awakened by her mother's call, she found the pillow still damp, hairs stuck to her cheek from the moisture.

She pushed past her sister to get into the bathroom, ignoring the other's irritated complaints.  A glance in the mirror showed the worst: she stripped and slipped into the shower without looking again.  Ideally, she wanted to not think again.  Sleep would be nice.  The past night she had been so exhausted that no dreams came.  If she could just slip back under the covers…

But no.  Just wash away thought with water.  Get through the day.  Follow directions, conform to habit, do not think.

Sheer will took her through the kitchen, past her mother and into the car.  The radio kept her blank on the ride to school.  Jessie, beside her, kept quiet, knowing why there were still the faintest traces of red rimming her step-sister's eyes.

School was easier than one would assume.  Focus on copying down the teacher's words.  Smile and nod at friends and acquaintances alike.  Pass up homework and take the quiz, focus entirely on each task as it came.

So intent was she that it took the sight of a stranger, in the seat that used to be Mr. Dimitri's, before she remembered what it was she had been avoiding.

"Hello class.  My name is Ms. Albrecht.  Your teacher is going to be out for the term-"  The collective glances, side comments and whispers of the class caused her words to falter.  She didn't know why he was gone, then.  "-and I will be replacing him.  I have his lesson plans here, but first attendance, until I learn all your names."  She flashed a hopeful smile.  The class in general reacted favorably.  Likely no more than three or four years out of college, Ms. Albrecht was attractive, and had the aura of a rather nice, rather popular person.

Grace heard the words, but was trying not to register them.  When her name was reached on the role call list, it took the whispers and friendly poking for her to give the customary 'here.'

"Okay, that's good."  Checking off the final name, Ms. Albrecht flipped through the book of lesson plans.  "For you guys…  You've been working on journals?  Since we're getting to know one another, how about we all spend this class writing.  Tomorrow you can hand them in, so I can get to know you all.  I'll write an entry too, and then I'll share tomorrow, so that you can get to know me."  Another smile, warmly received and returned.  "Yes?"  She indicated a student who had her hand raised.  "A topic?  Um, how about you all start writing about your favorite out of school activities.  But feel free to go beyond that; this is creative writing!"

Grace pulled out her journal and a pen with the others.  He had had a habit of scrawling notes or comments in the margins of their entries.  The sight of his handwriting sent a shudder through her.  Folding back the page, then the next, and the next, she stared at the blank paper.  

And stared, repulsed by the thought of writing in her journal, for another teacher.

But orders were orders.  Trying not to think, she started writing.

_I am Grace Manning.  I guess you know that, since my name is on the front, but this seems like a more friendly introduction.  Or more formal._

_It's funny, how everyone always wants to divide time between "in school" and "out of school."  Like life is this unit, cut into separate, neat chunks.  And we all live this double life, where in-school automatically counts for less, because it is assumed that we don't want to be here, and thus anything worthwhile in our lives must occur out of school.  But it isn't.  I act.  I like to anyway, and when I'm in a play my life is centered around the stage, learning my lines, becoming another person.  It doesn't matter whether I'm in school or not at the time._

_And in one way, doing a play is the most school-centered thing you can do – at least a high school play.  Everyone there walks the same hallways, has the same teachers, and probably knows some of the same people, or at least hears the same rumors.  And practice is in the building, so you practically live at the school.  But it's also not school at all.  If they're good actors, people aren't themselves.  And if they aren't good, and are still themselves, then you can still be someone else, and so those people are just strangers anyway, and it doesn't matter._

_But when they are good, and rehearsal is just flowing, everyone is linked.  And it doesn't matter if you are best friends or enemies, because together you are making something beautiful, and you both care so much about it being born perfect that differences don't matter.  That's what made the last play we did, "As You Like It," so great.  No one was perfect, scenery got caught and messed up, and people were on stage at the wrong times, but we were __the play.  Mr. Dimitri made us that way.  He pulled us together, and drove us, like we were  giving birth to this thing, this play, and he was the midwife, coaxing us into producing this wonderful piece of art._

_No other director I've had has done that.  Ever.  It was Mr. Dimitri.  He was special.  And people don't seem to realize-_

On that note the bell rang, and students around her began packing their things.  Grace couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at the lines she had written.  She couldn't even see them, as tears filled her eyes, but that didn't matter.

Most of the students were gone.  Someone was coming up to her desk and she got up and left without looking at them, swinging her backpack over her shoulder, and clutching the journal to her chest.  She moved among them, not with them, fleeing and hiding in the tide of bookbags and conversation.

She had lost her battle.  The closest bathroom wasn't far, yet she was barely through the door before the first tear slipped down her cheek.  A group of freshmen girls were gossiping in front of the mirrors, and turned to look at her as she burst into the room.  The far stall was empty though, and she ran for it, throwing down her bag, then collapsing on top of it.

There were no tears.

They were there, ready, but unnecessary.  All her pain was expressed through her posture, and the very fact that she was on the bathroom floor, head drooping and breath coming in irregular, harsh gasps.  It briefly occurred to her that were she on stage, this is how it would be.  Tears, hard to see from a distance, were all but unimportant.

Shoes appeared outside her stall, and a voice asked if she was alright.  Katie's.  

Of course not, how could she be?  "Yes, can you just go away?"  Her tone didn't allow for disobedience, and Katie left.

The bell rang again.  Grace didn't move.  She did put down her journal, still open to the half-finished page, and continue writing.

_-they don't realize how great he is.  How brilliant, and true to himself and art and us too, if we would realize it.  They shouldn't have suspended him, and he shouldn't have left.  It isn't fair that we would be called into that office, to be judged by people who didn't know either of us, and would put more credence in the gossip of sniveling incompetents rather than me.  Shouldn't I know if I was being hurt?  Why should my mom have more say that I do, when she wasn't even there?_

_I don't regret it.  And if I die at 100, on my deathbed I will smile, and when asked why I will respond "because I did one thing right in my life, one great thing" and they will ask "what is that?" thinking, perhaps, of my Pulitzer, if I win one, or that I graduated from college or had a child…  And I will say "I kissed him" and they likely won't know what I'm talking about but it won't matter because I will be dead the next moment, and will have taken that memory, that moment, with me._

_Why was it right?  Because it was true.  Everyone runs around lying.  They say nasty things about "friends" that they eat and laugh with the next hour.   People date, and lie even more, about how much they love, or what they like, or how far around the "bases" they have gotten.  They don't even care about love, just being able to have someone to go to dances with, and have a relationship to talk about._

_Everyone lies.  I lie.  But I didn't lie, not that once.  Not to myself, and not to him.  I don't know if I love him, if I am infatuated, if I have a crush.  All I know is that if love is being completed by someone, if a soul mate is someone whom you understand deeply, and who makes you become who you should be, makes you become better and grow, then Mr. Dimitri is my soul mate, and he is the first person I have ever loved._

_Which is why my actions were the smartest, the purest, the truest of my life.__  I "risked it all" by telling him, except that I didn't.  All I risked was my pride.  Those things that really mattered, who he was and what I felt, couldn't be ruined or changed.  And okay, that I choose that kiss as the hallmark, the symbol of it all, is trite.  I should rather pick a moment, when our eyes met, or when I acted __or when I finally completed a story, which would not have been started without his guidance…  Ideally, this moment should occur years from now, when all I have left of him is the memory of that brief span of time we were together, in soul, before ignorance tore us apart.  I don't, because yes, I am unduly influenced by the simple romance of 19th century authors.  And because he would have kissed me back.  I kissed him for myself.  So that whatever happened, I would always have that moment.  Like the seed.  I think it was Toni Morrison, who wrote about how even after she stopped fishing, because her father pointed out the fish's side, she still remembered the exultation and carefree nature of being on the water, pulling fish into the boat.  And that memory was a seed, which grew in her mind, and allowed her to understand those feelings, and write them, giving them to her creations.  That kiss is my moment, when I wanted something so badly that I took it._

_I kissed him.  It wasn't much of a kiss, as kisses go.  I've kissed before, and this was so much more.  There was no spit, or the high school attempt at eroticism.  It was intimate.  Distance he maintained, the sensibilities of everyone else, all dictated that we would never get that close.  So it was the idea, more than anything, which we threw back into their faces, threw back all their unwanted 'morality' and 'rules.'  Yes, We.  Our lips met, and he didn't move.  Neither of us did, at the shock of the connection, the 'forbidden fruit.'  And he didn't move.  Under my hands I could feel, or at least sense, his body shaking.  For that moment, at least, his mind, heart, body, soul even, wanted one thing, and I was giving it to him.  And at least for that moment, he was powerless to refuse it.  I think, more than anything, that was why I pulled away.  Because next he would have overcome his 'moment of weakness' and parted from me, with the words 'you should go' uttered as a plea as much as order.  Just as in the car, that time.  And I would again be the one to need.  Even if he had given up, given in, and shown me a new world, he would later regret it, in word if not heart..  So I broke the contact, spoke the words, and could leave happier than I had ever been.  I, like a heroine in a novel,  left him watching after me, dazed and silent from the confusion and turmoil of his different bits, for once totally vulnerable, while I was comparatively strong and sure._

_The one perfect moment of my life.__  One which life didn't hand me, but which I took for myself.  One that could fuel a lifetime of writing, each book, each story, each line closer to expressing all that was those few moments._

The bell rang again.  Grace didn't hear it, kept writing, the tears finally spilling out unconsciously wiped or blinked away, like automatic windshield wipers, so she could see.  It took a familiar voice, calling her name, to make her put down her pen and remember her surroundings.

"Grace?"

"What?"  She heard herself, as if someone else was speaking through her mouth.  She wondered that her voice bore no trace of tears, and that those on her cheeks found no new followers.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Because it's starting to get late-"

"I know.  Just give me a moment.  Did you need a ride, or anything, Jessie?"  She dried her face on her sleeve, and tried to draw out some of the heat of her face into her palms and the back of her wrist.

"No, I'm fine.  I'm just- Katie told me what happened.  And I guess…  I don't understand, but I_ know what you're feeling, if that makes sense.  So I'm…  I'm just here, if you need to talk, or anything."  One pale hand came up to rest tentatively on the stall door.  She couldn't believe in Grace loving Mr. Dimitri.  But neither could she deny that love wasn't always to be found in the expected places._

"I'm fine."  She opened the door, and indeed, looked well enough.  "I just sort of need to be alone right now.  But I'll see you later?"

Jessie was still worried.  But maybe it was best to let Grace alone, for a while more.  "Okay, I'll see you later."  And she was gone.

Grace could hear her whispering to Katie, right outside the door.  She stood in front of the mirror, using cold water to fade the telltale red and cool her inflamed skin.  Voices moved down the hallway, and a troupe of girls filtered into the bathroom.  Katie must have been standing guard while Jessie checked on her.  Needing to get away, she gathered her things and walked out.  There were glances, but a girl crying in the bathroom was too common an occurrence for special notice.  

She got into her car, threw her things into the back, and was halfway home before she realized she didn't want to go there.  So she turned around, heading instead for the library.  It wasn't busy at this time of day.  A few mothers, weary, read to their small children, or tried to keep them silent as they looked for the latest Danielle Steel or Mary Higgins Clark.  A couple of adults, and what were clearly college students, either sat at tables, surrounded by piles of books and paper, or were planted in front of one of the computers.  She chose the latter.

Lacking direction, she signed on to her yahoo account.  Three new messages.  She opened a joke from her father, sent back a comment to the effect that it wasn't humorous.  Opened one from a friend, giving her the date and time for a proposed study session.  Needing to write it down, she fished notebook and pen out of her backpack, vaguely aware that she was being rational, was acting without barring thought and that something must have changed.  She grabbed her journal.  She didn't realize it, but flipped open the cover, preparing to write on the inside…

…to find something already written there.

_August Dimitri: ADimitri@earthlink.com_

She started, but only because she had forgotten about it.  E-mail, so impersonal, had never been a necessity.  In class, at the play, after school… All her questions were asked and answered face-to-face.

But now…

At a sudden thought, she looked down at her hands.  They were motionless.  She was calm, or doing a good job of convincing herself…  Why?  

The torrent of writing had done what that of tears couldn't.  She understood.  Understood why and what and how she was feeling, and so was no longer at the mercy of blind emotion and helpless confusion.

She opened the screen for an out-going email, and entered his address.  Then paused.  For the 'subject' she typed 'Re: journal entry," an inside joke, perhaps, for herself, but hadn't she earned it?

But then she was stuck again.  Fingers tapped on the keys, making satisfying staccato noises, but accomplishing nothing else.  

_Mr. Dimitri,_

Again she thought, tapping at the keys.  _Or August she added._

_It was strange to go into class today, without you up front, teaching us.  _

Another pause.

_I read "On Love."  It is amazing.  In one respect, it invalidates any and all writings I may ever produce.  It's too good, too perfect… much better than anything I could dream of writing.  But it also makes me want to write.  To see if I can somehow embody the core essence of love, or anything, that well, exposing it, by my different voice and experience and situation, in a new way.  I'm not sure if that's what you meant, but I guess it doesn't matter since the outcome is the same._

Stream of consciousness had gotten her this far.  But this wasn't what she had really wanted to say.

_The whole situation…  Everything got to me today.  I started writing, and I think I understand some things.  Stuff that I didn't before, and that makes it okay if I never see you again or talk to you, or if you never even read this._

_Which isn't to say I'll forget you.__  No matter what happens, or happened, you gave me the greatest gift.  Nothing I write, no acting I do henceforth will be unaffected by your influence.  Like when I finally 'used what I was feeling,' and truly acted, as one is meant to act, how that was the best thanks I could give._

_So what I'm trying to say is thank you.  Thank you for believing in me, and showing me a way.  And thank you for something else too.  Something that's even more important, to me, but I know you don't want to hear it, so it will remain unsaid, though present._

_Grace Manning_

While typing she felt her thoughts moving full circle.  A check told her the same: that while there was some awkwardness, she had said what she wanted.  She left the errors.  They added something, perhaps in honesty.  Her confession, sent into the void, would go out as it was recorded by her fingers.

She hit send.


	2. Chapter 2

[Hmm Dimitri seems to rant in run-on sentences.  Please let me know if it's illegible babbling on my part.]

[OK, I _should leave this, come back later and fix it.  But I'm a bit neurotic about internal consistency.  Write, save, post.  One day, it will be my downfall.]_

[BTW, many thanks to all who responded.  It made me happy :]

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Chapter 2

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His life was just beginning.

After so many years of not writing, he found himself unable to wait one more day.  On the drive home, he came a tad close to colliding with a mail box as he dug around for a scrap of paper on which to record a few phrases that had the potential to become a fully grown poem.  Or short story.  Or novel.  Heck, you never knew about inspiration, that was the fun of it.

Time dissolved, as he focused, not on recent events, but on all the emotions and mini-crisis that had peppered his life in the last… How long now?  

Too long.  Was he dead then?  Was he dormant?  Maybe he was simply a caterpillar in its cocoon, and now he was finally breaking free, stretching his new wings and gazing at the big bright world.

Since he had emerged, he had done little more than force himself to periodically eat and rest.  Otherwise, he spent his time allowing ideas, fragments of poems, slight compositions on various topics, allowing anything and everything to tumble from his mind.  

Certain bits of it worried him.  While writing, he would feel a twinge, and glance over what he had written.  But the next moment, he forced himself to forget, losing himself in another spurt of creativity.

He was finally running down.  He became conscious of the stacks, scraps, and scribble-filled notebooks littering his desk and floor.  There even appeared to be a haiku on his wall, next to the bathroom door.  The voice in his head no longer shouted and ran about, but sighed and snuggled and said "let's take a break, then see if any of that was any good!"

His computer had not been shut off for a very long time, but now he saved and closed all the open word documents, opened his mailbox, and went for coffee.  The smell of fresh-brew brought happy memories of college days, when overtaxed and harried students would totter about the halls, running on the last vestige of massive caffeine highs.  No matter the contradicting reality, there, in college, was the essence of creation.  So many minds crossed paths, each thinking, many creating, and all feeding off the atmosphere of unlimited potential.

Of course, all that turned out to be an illusion.  Ideals are wonderful, but life does have a tendency to butt in.  Perhaps the answer was to never leave.  He had thought about that, once.  Actually, he had been offered a position, one not without opportunities.  But at that time…  The world seemed like such a wonderful place to go it alone, transcribing the wonders of life and thus erecting for himself an immortal monument in the form of regular black markings on faintly off-white paper.

Youth.  Yes, he was bitter about his own life.  But his own life was his own fault.  And he did wind up teaching high school.  It was a poor substitute for the remembrance of college days, but better than nothing.  

And the kids…  They reminded him of his classmates when he was that age.  Thoughts like "were they really so incompetent back then?" occurred infrequently, thank God, as he had never thought much of his classmates to begin with.

But they weren't all like that.  Once and a while, he would find a spark.  One that reminded him of that spark he had been so conscious of back then, though unsure of how best to use it.  If his had died, there was yet satisfaction in encouraging those of others, who might have better luck.

And then there was…

…Talent…

A suspicion gnawed at the corners of consciousness.  Taking cautious sips of coffee, by this time quite cool, he practically snuck up on his desk.  Sifting through, he found what he feared:

_Our days are numbered._

_Storms pass, lightning strikes,_

_Rainbows smile down on the dead_

_Floating in the swollen streams, _

_Casualties of a glance too high.___

_Is it for man to look upon his God, _

_His creator?__  Or is he the creator_

_Of his God, and to look is confirm?_

_Can not such imparted meaning,_

_Lain from a spirit too weak to bear,_

_Reside as easily in a breast as a star?_

_In a young flower as in the vigilant moon?___

_In his own past, future, present, a home for his love?___

_Why lose life to nature?_

_Why give up a soul to an artificial code?_

_Why not grasp it now, lay hold of that container,_

_Residence of being?_

_When our days are numbered?_

And another, scribbled on what appeared to be someone's essay on Of Mice and Men.  Oops.

_The future, they say, is unknowable._

_The possibilities are endless, chances many._

_Is this permission to ever hold out for something more?_

_In the end, all must be past._

_There is no future, no present but for the single thought encompassing the whole of life._

_Will it matter then if perfection,_

_If truth, if beauty, if happiness,_

_Were held but for one moment, one hour, one day?_

_Can one be condemned for letting it slip away?_

_Slip into the soft wash of memory?_

_Is it better to grasp and break,_

_Or to release and mourn?___

Had he spent all those years at the mercy of reality, to return to juvenile idealism?

But that wasn't what bothered him.  What was worst was that he could not remember writing any of it.

He read it, as if it were written by a stranger.  Each line was new to him, though all too familiar.

A moment of rage took him.  The wadded sheets missed the trash can, though he didn't see this.  His eyes were instead tightly shut, forcing the tears back down.  He would later define this as a slight aggravation of a topic suppressed down to his brain stem.  For the present, it was that-which-is-not-to-be-thought-of.  Stop.  Back.  Do Not Enter.

Ah.  Good time to check his mail.

Quite a bit had piled up.  Not an insignificant amount was from students, either in desperate need of help on an essay (something he was no longer in a position to help with) or wishing him well in his new pursuits.  There was also a question regarding the fate of the gay/straight alliance.  He wondered about that.  His brain shied away.  Well, no doubt the administration would take care of it.

Another untimely class-related question.

Umm…

Or not.

It only took until the _Or August following the common __Mr. Dimitri for him to know who was the author.  Though that might have been because __"On Love" would have struck his eye, and unconsciously been sent up for his mind to work on, and only one student, or adult for that matter, would be talking to him about "On Love" at this particular time._

The heavy cage with the suppressed thoughts inside was starting to show a worrisome amount of wear.

To hell with it.

Had he expected every bit of her to be gone from his life, leaving only a hint at his emotions, and later, an idealized version of herself?  No.  But had he wished for it?

Yes, if it would make life easier.

Conflict was wonderful.  Conflict drove life.  Conflict was best served cold, and done away with with eyes ahead and chin up.

No, he was hoping for the route which would leave minimal pain on himself.  And hopefully, even less on her, as she was young, would move on, would find her own muse…

Fine, might as well admit it all.

Grace Manning possessed the raw talent and passion he had owned, at her age.  Only he was a fake, and she was real.  He was a coward in fact, while she hid only on the surface.

If they had been in high school together, he would have jumped for the chance to encourage her, tell her how brilliant she was, how talented, how beautiful, not only in body, but in soul, which was so much more important, rare and valuable.  What's more, he would have proven it to her, not only by words, but also action.  At least, he hoped he would have.  One's adolescent self has a nasty habit of having been a tad more conceited and blind than one would have liked it to be.

But of course, reality won't set up the cards that way.

So he was destined for a second best role.  He was there to be her mentor, watch her come out of her shell and grow more confidant, both as writer and person.  For his apparent failure at existence to be validated by his encouragement of her development.  Then, hopefully, to remain in her mind as a rather good teacher, when she was writing her biography or chronicling her realization of potential.

Except that she had a rather obvious crush on him.  How to teach her, help her, when his words would not be taken as advice to be evaluated and picked over, but as the preachings of a glorified fake?  How to separate the real talent and mature introspection from the schoolgirl's crush?

He should have known it was more.  Should have known because of the source.  Why hadn't he?

Likely he had.  But the 'why me's and the general idea of her superiority in potential had made him keep his suspicion buried.  

Mostly.

Her slight social awkwardness might have resulted in some confusion, on her part, as to what certain subtle, accidental signs meant.  But it is rather hard to miss someone slowly, inexorably, leaning in to kiss you.  

That must have been confusing for her.  Perhaps even more confusing than for him.  After all, she was supposed to be untried, unwise in worldly matters such as infatuation and real love.  Or rather, used to the crushes and fawnings of students which no one, least of all they themselves, ever believed would come to pass.  And then, along he came, playing the part that should have remained in the imagination…

Curses.  And everyone must think, deep down, that he was enjoying this.  That he liked to pursue slight but inappropriate relationships with students.  Or that he was ecstatic over decades worth of searching for an ideal, a perfection, anything to believe in, which he finally found…

How else could it end?  She would move on, after a bit of angst.  He would use it, those months of enlightenment, and see what sort of a writer he really was, if there was anything under the fear.

Somewhere about here in his musings, he realized that he had never bothered to read beyond the opening salutation of the e-mail.

It was thus with no small amount of apprehension that he continued.

He couldn't help but smile.  He had been worried about a letter full of soppy sentiments, which he knew would later be loathed and regretted.  He realized this when he found none, and at the same time admitted that nothing of that sort would or could come from Grace, not like this.

The plea of "Grace" escaped his lips, a sigh that entirely bypassed his brain, opting instead for a non-stop flight from the heart.  Fingertips brushed the screen, as if to comfort her, or himself, or perhaps only in longing for something he had already given up.

'If you love something, let it go. If it comes  
back it's yours. If it doesn't, it never really was in the first place.'

The lines flitted through his mind.  He pushed them away.  If this particular thing came back, it would not be his.  It would be a bondage, taking advantage of a few moments of panicked homesickness.  It would be best to let her go, and take himself away.

He shouldn't have read her e-mail.  He definitely shouldn't respond.  Let her hate him, or at least be faced with sudden void.  She had given him permission.  Just stop it now.  Before anyone got too hurt.

It was the same driving force behind his proliferation of writings that prevented him from just letting her go.  As long as she didn't actually 'come back,' but only visited…

He clicked 'reply.'

Paused.

Rethought his decision.

Paused.

The pointer hovered over the tiny 'x' in the upper right, its vacillations mirroring the struggle within him.  Or at least the appearance of a struggle.  He had known what he would do, from the very first moment he knew this was from her.

_Grace-_


	3. Chapter 3

[Just me, or are these getting shorter?  And the notes getting longer?  Anyway, I apologize for the complete lack of continuity.  I'm bad at that, have to write it all at once.  Which is why this is my first ever serial, and not fifth or fifteenth or something.  So, hello, all ye subjected to this little experiment.]

[Oh, I'm in the midst of school ending, hence the lack of updates.  Even when I'm not working on those last major assignments, I'm feeling guilty over them… You know how it is.  Another two weeks and I'm free :]

[Oh again.  Yep, I agree, Dimitri was… off… in chapter 2.  It was self indulgence on my part, that whole thing.  Plus I either didn't tape or lost his eps… and Lifetime seems intent on *not* showing those…  So a combination of me and my lack of familiarity with the character are to blame.  Hopefully, he gets better once he's out of his house, and not talking to that odd voice inside his head.]  
[And the 'failing' incident is dedicated to a friend, a wonderful writer who, much to the amusement of all, found herself in much the same predicament.]

~*  ~*  ~*

Chapter 3

~*  ~*  ~*

His reply came as a shock.

Not because she had been convinced he wouldn't write, or because she considered her e-mail to have fluttered into the void itself, but because she had plain forgotten she'd written him.

Strange, that.  Did that always happen?  Just poke around in the bits of one's consciousness, prod the unconscious, take some action which tied most of it all up in a happy bundle of memories, to be placed in the attic for examination on some rainy day… and move on?

In a way, she was disappointed.  A part of her was already living as if he was gone, no longer existed but in her memory and creative stew pot, wouldn't cross paths with her ever again…  But shadowy figures of memory don't use the internet.  Generally speaking.

She played the cursor over the box, clicked it, then moved down to 'delete checked.'  Hmm…  To delete, or not to delete…  That is the question.  A question more interesting than the answer, since that was foregone, just as the ending to _Romeo and Juliet._

_Grace-_

He door banged open and she jumped, yelled, and moved to block the screen with her body.

"Zoey!!  Don't you _knock?  What do you want?"_

"Dinner's ready."  Her younger sister gave her a funny look, crossing the floor to sneak a peek at whatever Grace was hiding.  "Mom's been calling you for five minutes.  What's that?"

"My essay.  Get out, I'll be down in a minute."  Feeling around behind her back, she hit some keys she hoped would bring up the screensaver.

"Then why are you hiding it?"  Ah, the insight of the younger sibling…

"Out!"  …and the powerful glare of the elder.

She turned back to the computer.  Well, okay, she had managed to suspend operations.  Whatever.  She'd just be reading it after dinner then.

"Grace.   Grace?"

"Hmm, what?"

"Do you want any potatoes?"  Her mom was giving her a look.

"No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?  You seem distracted.  Anything going on?"  Various other members of the family turned to look at her.  Her eyes skittered across Rick's, and she felt that familiar pang, wishing that he and her mom had never met.

"Nothing.  I just have a lot of homework."  Jessie was giving her a sympathetic look.  She could be okay sometimes.  Her relationship with Katie was making her better.  Like, she was less perfect now, more human, or something.

"Are you sure?  Because-"

"Actually, something really weird happened to me at school today…"  Jessie cut in.  Grace sank back, relieved, and Rick picked up on her sentence, vaguely aware of his step-daughter's wish to be left alone.  

Sometimes she couldn't imagine life without Rick constantly diverting her mother's attentions.  Had to love the guy.

Because, of course, she did have homework.  But she also had an e-mail, on a topic still, ultimately, unresolved.  And it could be ultimately disappointing, breaking off contact completely, or…  

…Or something else.

And so, right at that moment, there was really only the one thing on her mind.  Curiosity killed the cat.  Would it also permanently ground the girl?

She escaped, at the first opportunity, not noticing a certain pair of eyes, as they watched her form disappear around a corner.

_Grace-_

_I think what I should be saying is that I'm sorry.  For the things I handled wrong, and for those things 'left unsaid,' as you so quaintly put it.  No, not for that per se, since I can already hear your protests, but if there is anything of that sort, for it happening.  It shouldn't have.  By the way, I would appreciate it if you'd delete this, it might be better if no one gets the chance to misinterpret._

_And so I'm sorry, but I thank you as well.  Likely nothing I write henceforth would have occurred, but for your role as catalyst and motivator.  If you like, you can consider it all dedicated to you.  I will._

_Please consider this the last whispers from a void.  I couldn't not reply, so perhaps this is just my selfish rambling.  It might be, that years from now, we will meet by a stage.  So until then,_

_Adieu,_

_August Dimitri_

~*~*~*

She never replied back.  She knew if she did, he'd only frown, delete the message, would never reply himself.

That was all right.  She had prepared herself for an ending.  And had gotten one better than she had practically hoped for.

Not, of course, as good as the one she dreamed of, but…

Life means reality.  Screenplay with a contemporary, Sundance story, rather than the happy star vehicles of the 50s, and 20s and…  hell, of all ages.  Hollywood is nothing if not consistent.

She expected the future she got, and was content.  Mostly.  She still looked for him.  A glimpse of red hair always made her turn, hoping it wasn't him, and moreover that he'd never see her, but also hoping it was him, so that she could know that he still existed, though his life be so removed from her own.

Kept looking, and kept starting, discretely, every time his name was brought up.  By the time the school year ended, he was hardly mentioned, by the time the new school year came around, he was all but forgotten.  Seniors have no time for such as last year's slight scandal.  There is college to look forwards to, parties, friends, and most importantly, getting out of high school.

Sometimes Grace would stop, wondering why they all wanted so much to be gone.  They would leave, separating, only to miss high school.  Miss the tight knit, sure social groups, the artificial structuring, the petty relationships that could take the place of real world concerns.

They would leave, then miss high school.  

They would.  Grace wouldn't.  So why was it that she was the only one not excited over the prospect of leaving?

Because she _knew memories would forever tie her to those halls._

Her mother set out catalogues for nearby schools, the scholarships she could receive.  She smiled and filled out the forms, but behind closed doors did it carelessly, quickly.  Instead she worried over a different set of applications.

And waited for the replies.

Her first moment of happiness was ruined by the small aberration in scheduling, which meant that Rick was home to get the mail first.

Stories seem to revolve around the expectancy one experiences while opening a letter which may be an acceptance, or a rejection.  Grace felt none.  Large envelope only meant one thing.

"So did you get in?"  The question came over dinner.

"Grace?  Did you get a letter?  Which college?"  Her mother was hovering.

"Umm…"

"NYU."  The letters were muffled, issued as they were from behind the better part of a hot dog.

"Grace didn't apply there.  Wha-"

This might be a good time to say something.  "Well…  I was reading some stuff, and it's a great college and all.  So I thought I would.  I  mean, just to see…"

"But New York?  That's…"

"Mom.  I know.  Look, it doesn't mean anything.  I don't have to go-"

"But you got in?"  Ah.  Pride rarely fails to turn wrath into enthusiasm.  In mothers, at least.

"Umm, yea."

"That's wonderful!"  Hugging.  "Was this something you were really considering?  Like you might actually want to go?  Because-"

"I don't know.  I thought I'd just wait and see what happens…"  
  
"Because if it's what you really want…  Do you know how much it is, by the way?  Oh, my little girl's growing up…"  More hugging, signs of tears, and a vacant expression that rather indicated her mom was about to run off to the phone and call everyone she knew.

Parents can be odd like that.

Which is how she wound up in New York, only one of thousands of freshmen.

Money had turned out to be less of a problem that she'd thought.  A couple of the scholarships she'd applied to had come through, knocking the price down to roughly what a good in-state university would have cost.

The day before classes, life settled around her.

Senior year had been a flurry of activity, from schoolwork, to work-work, to the school play, which she had tried out for, aware that it would be worse not to act, then to act without her director…

Summer held more work, many hugs, an accompanied trip to her new dorm room.

And finally, she was alone.

And finally, she realized, she had escaped.

It had been rather obvious to her that she couldn't stay home.  Anywhere in the city, she would always be looking for him.  She would never be able to concentrate on her future, would instead be always looking for her past.

Now, it occurred to her, she had stopped looking, and was instead waiting to find him.

_It might be, that years from now, we will meet by a stage._

Probably only one of his quirks.  But she took it, and held it to her heart as a promise.  Work hard now, and be rewarded later.

So she did.  Freshmen year was a bear, but tempered by the pass/no record system of the first term.  The drama department was, of course, wonderful, and she took a bit of voice and dance in her spare time.

She tried out for a few plays, both within the school, and for theatres 'off' campus.  Got a couple small roles.  She was no longer the big fish in small pond, but that was okay.  

She could learn.

And acting wasn't what held her enthralled.

She took a creative writing class, and was shocked to have to utilize the 'no record' option.  Obviously, writing is not something that is taught.  One would think, however, that that class would have some merit.  Or at least be taught by someone a tad more unbiased…  

To be frank, Ms. Delmont had never read a Russian author, was proud of the fact, and thought the like of Nora Roberts and Jude Deveraux to be the epitome of the craft.  God knows who hired her.

So, no more creative writing classes.  But there was a club.  At her first meeting, late on a Wednesday, she found a few of her most disgruntled classmates, and many others, who would become friends.  

Not that she liked all of their writings.  Many she found dribble.  But then, several disliked her work as well.  

It was the perfect group.  There was always a good mix of gushing and critiquing, no piece was treated with too heavy or gentle a hand.

She was in heaven.

It was during Winter break, when she was again at home, when she started the one piece that wouldn't be shared.  Not for a long time.  By request, she was picking Jessie up from school.  The building, the parking lot, the old classroom window, which she could discern from her place behind the wheel.

Time to move on, one more step?

~*  ~*  ~*

[A rare after-story note:  I don't know where this is going.  There are definitely options, but I don't know which would be best…  Suggestions?  Preferences?  Want to be surprised?  Audience participation time.  ;]


	4. Chapter 4

[They will meet eventually, I promise.  Thanks to all who gave suggestions :  (Offline now so I don't know who, or I'd do the personal thank list here.)  I was going crazy over the whole 'how, when, and under what circumstances?' thing.  Think I've got it.  Just toying with some random angst… to put it in, or not to put it in?  That is the question…]

[Oh, hopefully, the chapters will get longer once they meet.  I don't know why they're shrinking…  Pretend they represent the shrinking vacillations before the state of rest, and thus collision.  Or something.]

[BTW, _The Princess and the Warrior will be showing up from time to time.  It is wonderful, brilliant, wicked…  The best movie I've seen in possibly forever, and that includes __A.I. and __Momento.  Rent it.  You won't be sorry.  :]_

~*  ~*  ~*  

Chapter 4

~*  ~*  ~*  

…Hit send.

He knew it was selfishness on his part.  Wanted Grace to know he had…  had…  

Had read her message, understood, and reciprocated?  Wanted to reaffirm that he was alive, out there, someone she shouldn't give up on?  Who shouldn't give up on himself?

It was wrong.  But he wouldn't regret it.

And he didn't.

Days passed, the sun rising and setting, but really doing neither, as it was the Earth, spinning this way and that way in space.  But of course, it is only a matter of perspective.  That line looks longer, that shade of grey darker.  Stairs going up, down, impossible walkways in impossible worlds.

Perspective.  What an artist must have, must create.  Create the created, and hold the held.

Days turned to nights turned to summer turned to winter.  Linear life was giving way, folding back and forth in a tesseract of reality.  Write a story, send it off, write another, go back to the first, skip, send, crumple, write and revise.

His life.

He couldn't be happier.

Friends were the only things keeping him linear.  Rather, friends and postmarks, rejections and checks.  Ink cartridges and paper and coffee beans.  Even these ran together, until he might have been living the same section of time over and over and over…

His life had pulled back from the human restrictions into the fourth dimension.  His mind hadn't, not yet.  He knew what he'd eaten the day before, what movies came out and which plays would be worthwhile to buy tickets for.

He continued to eat, watch movies, go to plays, fall asleep, _wake__ up._

Hmm?  Yes?

Chris lifted an eyebrow, poked his arm.  "Have you been taking lessons in German, behind my back?"

"No."  Confusion.  "Why?"

"You haven't looked at the screen once in the past ten minutes."

Pointed look at the TV.

Actors frozen above their words.

"Oh.  Right.  I'm sorry, I guess I'm just tired…"

Smiles, hugs, and she left, taking the copy of _The Princess and the Warrior with her.  Let him sleep.  He needed it, she knew.  She'd known him back when, and he'd always needed sleep then as well._

But there was a difference, this time…  She shrugged, reasoning that they'd aged, life had happened, memory was faulty, people change.

The door was closed, but he didn't sleep.  Nor did he think.  Nor write.  He sat, watching his screensaver, tracing the complex knot of pipes as they grew…

The next morning he awoke, for once without flushed face and frenzied mind.  Slept late, until sated.  Looked at his watch.  December already.  When had that happened?

No, maybe… yes.  Vague recollection of chill air pouring in though his windows, less time with the sun, more time with the moon.  Wasn't only his imagination then.

His apartment was unbearable.  It had been too long since he'd left.  His body had gone, of course.  But not his mind.  That he kept, for the greater part, back behind those walls, in front of the computer screen, paper, typewriter.

First he was hungry.  Not much there, not surprising.  Two birds with one stone then.  

Get in car, turn on, drive.  His eyes spent more time on the scenery than the road and his dash.  Not particularly meritous of a driver's ed. award, but he was waking up.  Coming up.  The trees were bare, bereft of rainbow foliage, but the stark delineations between trunk and ground, branch and sky, embodied the sensuousness of nature as well as color could.  Existentialism versus Romanticism, Minimalist versus Victorian.

Park.  Go into the store.  Go back out.  Grab buggy, try again.  One cannot help but be amazed with mankind, when looking at monumental proof of his ability to create.

True, a supermarket is not that huge.  But each brand, each piece of fruit, each box of cereal represents many different companies.  The building itself was only one of many, each holding as much as this.  Locate the store on a map, and draw a line about the population that would use it.  Compare to the whole of the United States.  Impressive.

Packaged meat.  Scary thought.  Who grew the cows?  Who slaughtered them?  How were they cut up and sorted and shipped and packaged, so that he could hold this bit of red meat, hygienically enclosed in plastic?  Who made the plastic?  
  


Silly questions, one and all.  But there was a point, an end to which they drove.  One that is hard to express in words, captured best by shadows and whispers.

The eternal question, 'who made this?', lurked behind his ears as he criss-crossed the store, stocking up on the essentials.  Milk, eggs, cereal, bananas.  Cheese.  Meat.  Bread.

The bread was giving him problems.  Logically, there should be, and would be, a date printed somewhere on the bag.  Logically.  It was worse than _Where's Waldo.  Honestly._

He was flipping the sliced whole grain in his hands, rotating and staring and glaring and peering, when he happened to look up.  

He dropped the bread.

A moment later it was in the cart, somewhat smushed, but confident in the knowledge that it was to be purchased, without the future consumer ever having found the 'best by' date.

In that glance, he had seen Grace, walking past the aisle.

Her head was turned, conversing with a kid in his early 20s.  He actually looked familiar…  Her face was averted, but he knew it was her from her shape, her posture, her walk.  As if in confirmation of his recognition, _her laugh was tossed back to him, along with a snippet of her conversation.  "__…Not even!__  I'm talking quality, __not…"_

The kid with her, he did know him.  Her half brother – the musician guy.  He looked up.  Dimitri could have sworn the kid's eyes narrowed, just for a second, and then they were gone.

He continued shopping.  No big deal, really.  He shouldn't have been surprised.  Former students were always crossing his path.  Especially during holidays, when they were home from school.  

Still, he found himself checking around corners, and listening for her voice.  If he saw her again, his body was prepared to duck.  His mind was up there shouting that this was stupid, what the hell was going on, it doesn't bloody well _matter if she sees you.  _

But, as in any serious war situation, the chattering commanders, sitting safe in their offices, well behind enemy lines, had very little effect on the instantaneous actions of the common soldier, who was wishing very hard, and very much, not to die.

And yet…  There is something tantalizing about the thought of a land mine, or grenade, or volley of shot, so close that one could reach out and-

He got back out to his car without another trace of her.  All for the best.  He didn't want to force her into a sense of obligation, of guilt, regarding a few months in her junior year.

Back in his apartment, he sat down in front of his computer, to realize he was ready for a break.  

Chris was there that night, interested to see first hand the change she had heard over the phone.  His voice was clearer, and his eyes more focused, as if the transparent veil of paper and computer screen, which had been riding as potential in front of him for months, had finally lifted.

She had brought back _The Princess and the Warrior.  Rather, she had brought __him a copy.  Three days after her first viewing she bought herself a copy, and a week later she caved and started giving the DVD itself away to close friends, recommendations to all acquaintances.  There was a tendency, on her part, to do this with a couple movies a year.  Of course, no one complained, and her taste was better than most._

He watched, transfixed.  Chris watched, but also watched him, since she had the movie all but memorized, and there is nothing better than watching the positive reactions of friends to ones favorite art/entertainment.

After it was over, and the house had become a speck on the shore, they talked, and finished the popcorn and cleaned up.  And she was frowning.  His veil was back.

That weekend she called, and found out what it was.  He had discovered the screenplay format.

"What is it?"

"A play?  There is so much one can do with the actors, interacting in what is essentially one continuous cut…"

"It's going… well?"

"First draft by next Sunday."

They set a time for her to go over and have the first reading.  Then hung up.  Her, back to her new Terry Pratchett, him, back to his computer and coffee.


	5. Chapter 5

[Hi.  I realize it's been a while, and this may be junk, but a long time ago I promised to finish this, and I do want to.  Ironically, before last school year was out I wrote out a plot for the entire story.  Then life happened and I stopped writing anything, then college started and I still didn't write.  Now I'm hundreds of miles from my notes and I'm not sure where they are anyway.  This is all a long winded sort of way of saying: I think I found myself again.  And as Grace made the transition from high school to college, so have I, and perhaps this will make us understand, better, what it is she wants to say, and where her life will lead her.]

~* ~* ~*

Chapter 5

~* ~* ~* 

In heaven and hell and every place in between.

There was a point in her life when she thought she was well read.  Yes, much of this was in comparison with her classmates.  And she had, indeed, managed to give herself a fair grounding in literature in the relatively short time she had been capable of reading chapter books.

Still.  It was now, for the first time, that she looked out and saw not the largish pond of worthwhile words she had always assumed, but the veritable primitive ocean: wild and huge and constantly heaving in an evocative dance, covering a stretch reaching far beyond the horizon.  One in which no swimmer could ever survive, across which no ship could ever sail, the gateway to a land only the artist can ever imagine.

Some how, some way, she managed to read or glance at every author, every title that was recommended to her.  And it was in the least likely of places – in the new best seller, the old sci fi, the battered western, the book no one had every heard of – that she found sparks of beauty and of promise and perfection that she would never have found on her own.

This made her sad and happy.  Realizing one is not unique a standard disappointment.  Discovering that one is not alone is a wondrous moment. 

She was not alone.

Work for a play had kept her from home over Thanksgiving Break.  Rather than be the one to destroy an otherwise complete family gathering, the kids had spent the holiday in various houses, and Zoey had even flown over to keep Grace from feeling alone.

But Christmas was for the family.  Everyone, connected through all the marriages, had agreed to gather for the holiday at the old Manning residence.  Old times revisited, in more ways than one.

Grace arrived early on a Friday, her classes over for the week.  As the plane lifted off, a lump began to grow in her chest.  Once the pilot announced the proximity of Chicago, the lump experienced a sudden growth spurt, before slowly, agonizingly, creeping down into her stomach.

Oh.

She had often wondered if her emotions had reached a plateau.  Had attained a certain set of qualities and found a certain place in her mind and heart where they could be drawn upon and guide her.

In one respect, they had.

There was a whole other respect, however, which she was now aware of.

Was this what love eternal felt like?  A fire that was content to smolder, until some bait, a proximity, a thought led it to rear up in high dancing flames?  Poetically, perhaps.  Currently, she was experiencing something more akin to an acute attack of nerves.

Nerves which only increased as the plane landed.  

While the other passengers stood up and grabbed luggage and stood around, Grace remained seated.  

Slight airsickness?  Yes.  As good an excuse as any for why her chest was suddenly too tight, the world spinning before her eyes, and her breakfast was queuing up to come back up.

Irrational.  But fun, in a way.

Fun?  What the hell?

No.  Fine, fine, Ms. Airline Stewardess.  Just a tad queasy there for a moment.  This bag is it, the plane will be empty momentarily.

Body still at the mercy of whatever it was, she disembarked.  And for one moment she indulged it, and looked around the gate, searching for one face.

Nothing.

Her name was called, her mother was running to her.  Grace smiled back and by the time they were close enough to embrace, she had pushed it all away.

"How was the flight?  How are classes?  Is that play over, I forget, the one you were in?  I wish we could have come out to see it, but with the baby and work-"

"Mom, it's okay."

Her words were swept up and lost, but that was fine.  It was good to be home.

In the car her mom began pausing long enough to hear responses.  By the time the car pulled in to the old house, the pair were laughing over the baby's latest antics.

Another embrace, as soon as the lack of seat belts allowed for it.

"Honey, it's so good to have you home."  Eyes shining and voice quavering, there was nothing to doubt.

"I'm glad to be home too, mom.  You know, if you want, I can go pick up Jessie and Zoey, and you can start cooking, or, whatever."  A latent need to put off, even for another half hour, stepping inside that den of all memories?

"You don't have to do that.  This is your vacation."

"But I want to.  Really.  It will give me a chance to visit the old neighborhood."

So keys were exchanged, another hug, and Grace didn't follower her mother into the house, but instead reversed out of the driveway.

Streets, houses, the skyline.  The building, the parking lot, the old classroom window, which she could discern from her place behind the wheel.  So much time had passed in so few months.  The first few students were walking out the doors.  No matter that three-fourths of them were the same as in the year before, they were all strangers.  Strangers from another world.

Grace got out of the car, conscious of the way the wind twisted her hair and stung her bare skin.  Holding herself perfectly still, she awaited her sisters.

This car ride was much like the last.  She quiet, in the beginning, warming to conversation as they neared the familiar front door.

They entered together, laughing.  Lily stopped and watched them, without speaking.  Grace wondered what she saw.  Wondered if they looked as if they had stepped out of an edited movie of scripted play, three young, pretty girls in the bloom of health.  She had been thinking about that a lot lately, how real life and fiction intersected and blended together.  Where is the distinction, really?  Where can one draw a line, and have the line be true?

Nowhere and never, it is to be assumed.  But then also, always and everywhere.  Everything is a matter of perception, and perception can be shifted and defined off the view one wishes to take.

Such a reality it is, that we live in it!  This was her constant thought as they made their way through dinner, and went afterwards to watch a new movie.  Such strange incomprehensible variations of feeling and sight, history and motion which at every moment are poised to collide, then shatter into innumerable interpretations.

Almost too much, too many.  But this is what the artist craves.

It was during that night that she began the one piece that would not be shared.  Not for a long time.  Maybe never.

It was also during that night that she began one piece that would be shared, and would be shared in the not-too-distant future.

Two works.  Two sides of the same coin, two facets of the same situation.  Two perspectives, two voices.  Two, two, two: but an attempt to express one truth.

The next morning she awoke to light.  It poured in the window, it lifted weights from her shoulders and filled her lungs with an expansive pleasure.  This newest journey would take a long time, perhaps even the rest of her life.  But it was begun, finally, and moving is infinitely more rewarding than standing still.

Unlike so many previous occasions, she felt no drive to write.  This was no story birthing itself from her mind.  No ending searching for a beginning and middle.  

This was exploration to be taken slowly, completely, deeply.  A recording, but more than that.  Grace imagined that she knew how historians felt.  Caught up in the midst of something so extraordinary that it felt ordinary, but realizing through the written word that to others, each of those moments will become a fascinating struggle, a hyper-reality of excitement and drama.

Strange, eh?

And there it is again.  In the interplay between melodrama and humor, somewhere in there lies reality, and truth, and understanding.

Stories will use one, or the other, or both of these tactics or more to try and reach a point.  What is really important, however, is what Grace was starting to realize from the broadening of her literary horizons.

The words, the style, the punctuation, even the story is not an end unto itself.  Rather, the importance lies in some junction of all of these.  At some point at which the reader finds an emotion stirred long after the book is returned.  Long after the plot is a dim memory, the punctuation and diction long past an impression.  

There are as many paths to this ill-defined point as there are roads to Rome, or ways to lead a life.  It was Grace's new ambition to try as many different paths as it took to create something that would stir the longing or idealism or heartstrings of some reader, some day.

Her path was good, her path was pure, and she was content.  For the rest of her break she talked and laughed and hugged and smiled, and started piece after piece and took notes on idea after inspiration.

Because Eli came to dinner that night, and she spent a good portion of her week in the company of Eli.

During her senior year she had gained a strange closeness to Eli, spanning a period when she loved him without caring, then during which she cared for him without love.  God knows what he thought, but her comfort led to his comfort led to friendship.

After this time apart, Grace saw again how perception tricks the human mind.  How different was this boy, no, he was almost a man, from the ideal that lead to her first honest moment on stage?  An eternity of miles.  What in him inspired that emotion?  Grace looked, but could not find anything.  

It must, then, have been born entirely in her own self.  This she thought, while watching his profile as they walked through a grocery store.  She herself and herself alone created all that she felt.  True?  Was everything everyone felt only inspired by the outside world?  How sad, how tragic that no beauty would then be possible independent of the self.

The corners of her mouth dropped, and her glance fell to her shoes.  

Eli asked after the cause but she only shook her head.  No, she was too young to believe that.  Better by far to hold on to the idea that no matter how much she read, how much she watched, no matter what was conjured up inside of herself…  It all lead to something real.


	6. Chapter 6

[Sorry for delay.  I was trying to pull myself together for end of term.  I've decided to reassign this as a collection of vignettes, rather than one continuous story, though it does follow a story.  Thank you to all who left comments.  Also, in chapter 5, Grace no longer has tears in her eyes :   I somehow lost the email before replying, but you were right, I was wrong.]

~* ~* ~* 

Chapter 6

~* ~* ~* 

Forget caffeine alone, the whole is more than the sum of its parts.  It was coffee gestalt and when he concentrated he could feel it run down his throat, splash into his stomach, churning and sinking and finally osmosizing through hardened lining into his bloodstream, pushed forward and around by the relentless beat until shooting through his heart and finally, at least, directly nourishing his brain…

There was a down side, involving ever increasing frequency of bathroom visitations.  But that was a small price to pay for the fuel which then sped from brain down shoulders through arms into fingers and down into motion and connection and his _meaning appearing in front of his eyes._

Small price.  Why pay any price?  No, take that back, it is what it is and works because of it.  Perception of the self and the environment and the aura of breath have more influence on inner being and power than uh, well, not more than other drugs but this is a drug itself.

Yes, the most consistently powerful drugs are made by the human body.

Proved millions of times, trillions, in billions upon billions of situations.  Admitted in art, films and books and paintings and sculptures, in the eyes of the creator and the dreamer, the survivor and the lover.

And this sweet liquid, immortalized, almost canonized itself…  Blasphemy?  Never!  But while we're on the subject, it is not going too far out of the way to note that August was almost out of the dark bean.  

The Cause.

The bit of night creeping through his open window had been beckoning him for an hour.  His legs were begging for something longer than a bathroom break anyway.  The next lines were coming out jumbled and wrong.  A good time to run to the coffee shop.

The Effect.

A good story is driven by the tension of drama.  Give and take, cause and effect, desire and repulsion all thrown together and then you shake and you bake and the listener can't help but feel it.

The tension was there in his head, and his chest.  He was living it all again only worse, since he was looking for it, distilling it, idealizing it.  He was living it all again and it hurt and part of him wanted to stop, yes, but more of him loved every word.

Sweet torture.  An apt phrase.  Was he justifying or reveling or dreaming?  Who cares, really?

So long as he had his memories and his thoughts and his ability to feel and a will to express it.  Paper to mark up and pens to mark with and having a computer was bonus.  And a place to write in and somewhere to get away, briefly, and coffee.

Right, coffee.   

He pulled into the lot and pulled into a space and got out of his care and went into the café.  And he got in line and he began to wait and he looked around and he saw a girl.  She was sitting by herself, curled possessively around the notebook she was writing in.  Hair hid her face, loose fabric her form, but above her arm he could see neatly penned letters, and from the careful handwriting, the beauty of her page, he knew she too was beautiful.

She never looked up but he smiled down.  Suits and irritation no longer existed as it was only the two of them, alone and alive with their words, linked together in spirit.  

A pound of the house blend, rich and dark.  Wait, better make that two, and a large black to go.  The machine churned and liquid splashed.  Money changed hands and he was backtracking, past the girl who never looked up and out the door, into his car, out of the lot, into the traffic.  

Out of the car and into his house, refill the coffee machine and sit in front of the computer once more.  Tap, tap, what next?  His thoughts strayed back to the girl in the coffee shop.  She appeared in his mind's eye, and he smiled at the complex manipulations of her fingers, the way her long hair never fell straight.  He smiled, to her and to himself, and began to type.

He had written an outline, but the scenes had come to him out of order.  These last few, the ones he had struggled with since even before he knew he would write this story, fell in the middle.  A hole had lain in the middle of his tale, and now it was filling, not from one side or the other but from the very heart.  

So much lay in this pages, but so little it was.  A few conversations, silences, movements.  He was finished in a few hours, a first rough hack was saved by nightfall.  

The back of the chair caught his weight as the hourglass slowly rotated.  He had planned to do a bit more work, but found no motivation.  He felt lifeless, empty, passionless.  Everything he had become was safely out of his frail self and locked away here.  The vacuum left behind felt odd and he worried, vaguely, if this was it, the end of his life.  But he had written before, knew this feeling, knew passion and life would return, in time.  Knew enough to enjoy this feeling while it lasted, take pleasure in this change of being.

Wandered outside to watch the sky and stayed there until noticed the cold.  Watched the final darkening, the lightening, the moon, the few stars bright enough to cut through the light pollution o f the modern day.  

For a time he thought of nothing.  Then he began to probe backwards, to remember with an analytical eye.  He thought of that day, his 'old weird music' playing as Grace sat on the edge of the stage, and they both listened, together, to the same words, the same notes.  And heard the same thing.   Old ear and new, two old souls enjoying the same sounds.

Much as he loved those records, grading papers to them, relaxing to them, he loved this more.  Drained, feeling the grass beneath him and the empty air above him, the vast space relating to the tiny human body he occupied.  The music of the night that slipped in his ears and refilled him with something that wasn't what had been there before but was light and sharp and clear…

It was here he realized his body was shivering, the ground more than a match for the heat his body could produce.

Numb fingers let him into the house and stripped off his clothes.  Under the covers he huddled, focused on the feeling of the sheets against his skin, the slight weight of the comforter, the happy tingles in his skin as he gradually thawed.  

Thawed out, and behind closed eyes, drifted off.  Dreamed dreams he would not remember when he awoke with the sun.

He still felt somewhat insubstantial.  But his body craved exercise so he dug up some sweats and found his mp3 player.  Hard as it was to admit the defeat of the walkman, it was much easier to run with this smaller, lighter piece of electronics. 

 For about an hour he traveled under his own steam, on purpose starting out in the opposite direction from the high school.  Periodically alternating his pace, he settled into a rhythm he had missed since the last time he had gone out for this activity that was about more than the exercise.

The next his home saw of him he was high on endorphins, full of energy, and not immune to the lure of orange juice, stuffed omelet and frozen waffles.

He wasn't sure what to do with the rest of the day when a phone call solved his problem.

"So how is your play going?"

"Finished last night actually.  Just the first draft, of course but-"

"Hey!  That's really great.  How are you feeling?"

"A bit wiped out.  You know how it is.  I feel pretty good though, went for a run this morning.  I can't believe how gorgeous it is out there."

Chris laughed, the familiar sound welcome.  "Well, if I know you, you've haven't moved, much less looked out the window since I saw you last."

He laughed with her.

"Is it still okay if I come over later to read it?  Or we can just hang out, if you're up for it of course."

He was, he realized, in need of human contact, and time with Chris was always time well and enjoyably spent.  

They agreed on a time and he went to the shower then went to the store, after a glance in his refrigerator proved less than satisfactory.

~* ~* ~* 

"It does need fleshing out-"

"I just needed to get it down.  I know it needs work but-"

"- and I don't know much about scripts, August, but this is really good."

"Do you mean that or is it just because we're friends?" The goofy expression told her he didn't mean it.  But there was another- in his eyes, there was something.  Something that wasn't asking her _that, but was asking her-_

"Of course." White smile.  She put a hand on his arm and sought his eyes and became serious.  "I don't want to say this because I may be wrong, but I think this story has a lot to do with your last year teaching."  Waiting now, for a response, but he gives none.  "And I think it's good for you to release what you've felt about that.  And this-" She indicated his script.  "This reflects that, and that's what makes this so wonderful."

Chris didn't sound finished.  But she stopped talking and started putting away the packages of luncheon meat and cheeses that had provided their buffet-style meal.  Hands and eyes gave attention only to the perishables, mind, for all he knew, was bent the same way.

He did know, however, since he knew her.  And he knew that she wasn't letting herself believe that this was as based on fact as it was.  He wanted to ask her more, press until she would tell him what she really thought.

But he wouldn't, couldn't, didn't want to know that she was disgusted at him, disappointed in the way he had acted and how he glorified what it had been…  

Wanted to ask, as she went into more technical comments, what she thought of the ending.  


	7. Chapter 7

[And I chug-a-lug on.  BTW, and I feel really silly for forgetting to do this *twice* now, but chapter 5 was (and is) dedicated to whoever it was who sent me an email about this story sometime last fall.  It had far reaching consequences- dragging up to consciousness old thoughts, which turned into a nagging in my cerebellum which, months later, resulted in ch 5 being written, and so on.  Cheers ~**~]

~* ~* ~*

Chapter 7

~* ~* ~* 

It was her party and she'd damn well cry if she wanted to.  

Bodies, music and discourse filled her dorm room and dribbled down the hallway to the common area.  Borrowed tables were ladened with chips and dips and double mocha fudge cake.  Speakers hooked up to her computer threw out vintage Coldplay.  The rest of her desk was donated to the alcohol.

Beers were stacked underneath, hard liquor and a few bottles of wine and champagne, fruit juice and a bucket of ice weighted the top.  Taking advantage of a pause in Grace-participated conversation, she refilled her new wine glass with her favorite fermented beverage.

It was her party and all she wanted to do was laugh.

Her roommate was on the same mission, and gave her a hug before reaching for the vodka.  "Congrats again.  Though of course, there's no surprise from this side."  

And Grace laughed.  Laughed not at the words, but because she wanted to, and because she could.  "Now if only I could pass Western Civ..."

"Application for God in the mail?"  A judicious whoosh of OJ mixed with the vodka.  

She wondered briefly how much Max had had, but wasn't worried.  Her roommate always spoke like that, fast and slick and oftentimes as if she wasn't quite responding to the same stimuli the rest of the world received.

It was her party and life didn't get better than this.

Grace Manning, sophomore at NYU, was a published author.  Technically, she had been published for years.  A couple of short stories had been published in small magazines while she was still in high school, and the trend continued into her college days.  What they were celebrating today was the signing of her first contract.

Granted, it was for editing collections of short stories.  But she included some of her own, some from her friends, was making contacts with more established authors and out there in publishing land, and thousands of copies of a book were being printed: a book on whose front cover her name would be stamped.

She felt professional and had a right to the word and it was all due to one conversation.

People have relatives and relatives have jobs.  One of the students in her writing group had an uncle.  To be precise, more than one uncle, but it's just the one that is relevant to this occasion.  His uncle was an editor by trade and a great guy by nature and was only too happy to speak to the group and talk with interested individuals.

He and Grace had hit it off, continued talking after the group officially dispersed for the night.  She sent some emails with attachments, he liked what he saw, and now there was one book at the printer, and she was legally obligated to hand her new editor two more in two years.

A long term homework assignment, only less pointless and more lucrative.

Scrap the "more."  It didn't pay well, exactly, but there is a satisfaction to being paid for creating unrivaled by anything else.

And so she had ample justification for her self-satisfaction as she stood there, in the midst of friends, with a song in her heart and a good drink in hand, all flowing through her veins.

"Hey, congratulations."  Another pair of arms snaked around her waist, another voice picked up the sticks and went tappa-ta-tap on her ear drums.

"Brian, hi.  But you gave me something already."  Because in his hand, resting against her stomach, was something rectangular and gift-wrapped, purple strings tied in an altogether ridiculously elaborate fashion.

"I know."  His cheek was warm against hers.  "But you, dear sweet one, are queen.  A goddess, sparing a glance downward at the humble masses, deigning to grace us with notice…  What loyal servant would fail to pile offerings at the feet of such a being?"  

At a point early on his voice had deepened and become adoringly tragic, amusingly simpering.  Entertaining, on the whole, rather than disgusting or annoying, which is why she had let him continue on with it.  It was so pleasant, actually, to listen to him, while warm arms surrounded her, that she wouldn't have been disappointed had he continued on for a bit.

"Heh.  Aren't offerings usually offered up while the offer-er is prostrate on the ground?  I think something about incurring wrath is generally mentioned?"  Swaying softly back into him, she deliberately tossed her hair back into his face as she took a sip.

"For the meek and unworthy.  I, however, am no ordinary mortal.  For my soul's ablution, I must come directly to you."  

Brian, she knew, could go on for hours.  And he only became more humorous as he became more drunk- and he was already slurring on the longer words.

"Me?  Not, say, my desk over there?"  

He gasped.  "Ah, you have stumbled upon the truth!  I dare hide it from you no longer, my heart must be bared in front of ye who I worshipped so long.  My heart-"  Here he applied a light thwump over her own heart.  "-is no longer yours to command, though I wouldst it still reside in such blissful comfort.  Yet my new mistress…"  Sighing.  "She calls.  I must go to her."  Turning once to give her a regretful glance, he went for the booze.

"Wait a sec.  Are you sure you're new religious icon is going to enjoy that sacrifice?"

"Ah."  He looked at the package in his hand.  "Perhaps not.  Well, for old time's sake then.  Ta ta."

One handed, Grace caught the box.  Twining her fingers under and between the strings, she wandered out into the hall.

Into the hall and between the people, past empty cups and chip bags, away from the noise and the people and into the elevator.  Out the front door and even here it was not quiet, music from a half dozen parties and gatherings pushing out the silence.  

But she was alone and that was sufficient.  

She sat under a tree, comforted by the damp and giving earth beneath her and the rough trunk behind.  The greenery overhead sheltered her, but in small gaps through the branches the night sky created another roof, another definition of scale.

She sat under a tree, with the ground beneath and the sky above, solid life behind and in front of her, in her hand, a glass of wine.  

She sat and her mind went back to another evening, another party, another glass of wine.  That time the wine filled a plastic cup.  That time she had never tasted the contents.  That time she had wanted to share something more than a pilfered drink and this time she wondered how different it would be if she were holding that plastic cup.

Because she was very conscious of how elegant the glass, how carelessly and familiarly she balanced it in her fingers.  How the wine might now be taken for granted but the other, the first sharing, could never happen.

She sat under a tree while her party continued upstairs.

~* ~* ~* 

A few months later, a similar scene, different cause.  

Max and she had been up late, with nowhere in particular to go and with nothing in particular to do.  Midterms were over and their mini-fridge was stocked.

They were pretty good roommates.  This wouldn't be the first night spent hanging out together, and it wouldn't be the last.  Of course, not all had been so lucky and at some point they began to make up situations, people who would make for the worst 'roommate experience.'  Plain descriptions moved to role play.  At some point they hooked up a microphone to Max's computer and hit record.

Neither thought much of it until the last few friends were still sitting around, loath to leave quite yet.  The sound of her own voice caught Grace's attention.

By the time she figured out what was playing the others were laughing.  She listened too, prepared for the worst.

Not bad.  They all agreed.

Rather, those who weren't Grace or Max declared it brilliant stuff, and the two girls were forced to admit that it wasn't exactly the worst thing either of them had ever done.

Over the next month they spared time to transcribe, and worked from there.

When they were done they sold it around and one of the student acting clubs voted to perform it.  

Casting was over with and rehearsals had begun.  Grace and Max had nothing now but to wait until show time, unless they wanted, meanwhile, to view a rehearsal.

More wine, more congratulations, one more achievement.

Her dad left the bookstore to Tiffany for a weekend, her mom left the baby to Rick, Judy also took a weekend off and brought Zoey to see the play.  

It was fun, to be sitting with them, rather than forcing herself to not scan the crowd while on stage.

It was also nice that this was a fairly basic comedy with fairly basic subject matter.  Witty dialogue and colorful acting took precedence over anything truly horrifying or personal.

Hugs and kisses and they were flying back.

The play-writes attended every show.  Closing night Max was late.  Someone too large to be Max sat down, and Grace turned to tell them the seat was reserved.

"Sor- Eli?"

"Hey Grace."  He smiled at her, and it all would have been fairly normal except that this was New York and he lived in Chicago and he had told her that he couldn't get off work and this was the middle of the week.

"How- What are you doing here?"  Standard confusion and mild shock.

"I figured I'd come and give your 'Happy Birthday' in person."

"But it's nowhere near my birthday."  Of course, the thought is always appreciated…

A grimace.  "Yeah.  That was the one flaw in an otherwise delightful plan."  

"The rest of the plan being?"  Curious, flirty maybe?  But Max was coming down the aisle now.

"To come out here and wish you a happy birthday."  Looking very silly now, but he was only hitting the notes he was shooting for.

"So, basically, that was the whole plan?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Then Max was there and she'd met Eli the last time he had visited.  They found another row with three seats together, and since they had fun in one another's company it was comfortable for Eli to sit in the middle, an arm around each of the girls, and they giggled together.

[Oh, vignettes because of the erratic way I'm writing this.  And the original concept was moments of time, reflections of instantaneous emotion justifying the stream of consciousness style and whatnot.  Doesn't really matter in the end.]


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: A realization two years in the making: I haven't really been happy with anything since chapter 1, because nothing since chapter one has been _about_ anything.  Sorta hurt no one ever pointed this out, but live and learn.  Still not about anything (it's one of my writing flaws) but this story is going to live in the back of my mind until the resolution.  Thanks to Sarah, whose timing brought this story back into the foremost part of my mind.

Chapter 8

There are some things in life that just are.  You can't change them, move them or stop them.  All you can do is try and ignore them, or live around them, or hold in your stomach as you squeeze past day after day until you grow up and move on.  One of these things was the continuous R&B which seeped through each and every wall, emanating from the apartment across the hall from where August was living while his third play was being readied for opening night.  He had bought ear plugs and slept behind the A/C unit.

In the book industry, and maybe it's the same for everything else, but in the book industry it's the rule of three.  The first book gets you a contract, and the contract gets you a chance for two more books.  The first book gets your name on a shelf, somewhere.  The second book hopefully starts to get some attention, and with the third book you've either got fans or empty electrical sockets in the middle of a heat wave.  If you've got fans you've probably earned an extended contract.  If you've got nothing, then it's time to start all over.          

This was his third play, and the chips were on the table. 

His first play, _One More Day_ had been a simple introduction.  Sharp contrast in characters and motivations, and a straight line narrative making use of the Three Unities made it hard for any small theatre to say no, since it was hard for any director to misunderstand.  It was also easy for any audience member to leave pleased with the diversion.  Though a ground breaking philosophical interlude it was not, humorous engaging look at the lost art of marriage it was.  The theatre was small but respected, and he had his in.

His second play, _Never Mind the Screaming_ had been a little more complicated, a little darker, and opened in a little bit bigger theatre.  The subtle peek into the fragile lie of being a 'grown up,' had met with serial applause.  He never read reviews, but he knew there were a lot of them.  A second theatre group had started pre-production, and he was starting to remember faces.

This was his third play, the first one he'd written and the chips were all on the table.  Everything he had was out there, right down to his bus fare home.

There are some things in life that just are.  You can't do anything about them, all you can do is find a way to live with them or to live around them.  One of these things was the chandelier in his Grandmother's house.  It hung low, in the middle of the entrance way, and many an unwary visitor had soon required ice.  One summer, when he was 17 and had just grown several inches faster than his hair, he had knocked into it daily.  But then he learned, and ducked to the side, a habit he couldn't break even when the house had passed to his aunt and the chandelier was moved to a more reasonable location above the dining room table.

This was his third play, and he hadn't gone to any rehearsals, but he spent every day hovering outside the back door. 

After a week the cast had stopped inviting him in, knowing he wouldn't go.  The stage manager would bring him coffee at each break, and the director would greet him as he came and left, but that was all the interaction he would allow himself.

All his chips were on the table, waiting for that one spin to cease and settle.

"Vente Mocha Frappuccino for your thoughts?"

"Does it have whipped cream?"

"Of course."  One gloved hand swung the drink slowly, pivoting about some point buried deep under a sheath of cardboard.

"Then you may have all the thoughts I possess."

"Did I ever tell you how unsexy a man is who can be bought this cheaply?"

He raised an eyebrow over the twisted blades of white.  "Should I hold out for a Ferrari?"

"No, it wouldn't be you.  Might want to hold out for a subway pass though, if you plan on living here."

They shared a smile.  The kind of smile which had little to do with anything that happened to be happening, but the kind that said 'hey, we've smiled together many times in the past, and will smile together again just the same.'  "I thought you were coming out tomorrow?"

"You've been here for two months.  Forgive me for being curious as to what you've been doing with yourself." 

"This and that.   New York is a big town."  There had been very few times when he had been unhappy to see Chris.  He wasn't unhappy now, but there was a glint in her eye which indicated he might soon be wishing she hadn't come upon him.

"So this stoop is pretty comfy.  Come here often?  Are there pigeons, or are the naked girls hiding around the corner until I leave?" 

Ah.  There it was.

"How did you know I was here, perchance?"

"Bill called me.  He thought you could use some moral support."

"Did he now."  Directors thought too much.

"That and he said the lead actress almost tripped over you yesterday.  And while he'd put her on stage even if she was on crutches, he'd prefer it if she was fully mobile."

"That's generous of him."

"Not really.  I didn't say this, but I hear he and his leading lady have a little something going on after hours."

There are some things in life that just are.  No matter how far or fast you run, or how desperately you try and hide, you can't escape them.  One of these things was the complicated relationship he had had with Grace Manning.  He had found he couldn't escape it, couldn't abandon it, would have to accept it and embrace it or waste his life having lost everything else in his desperation for avoidance. 

Chris knew what his silence meant.  "So, twenty-four hours until opening night.  Want to celebrate?"

He had tried for resolution by writing it all out.  But the fault had always been in the secrecy.  All those moments were so wrong, so precious, so monumental because they happened behind closed doors and under the watchful eyes of their respective worlds.  What they needed was the judgment that would spring from exposure.  What he needed was to take a step back, and watch himself, watch her, watch the two of them together from the distance of the third row.

"I don't think I'd refuse something a bit stronger."

"Then you're in luck.  I brought along a few bottles of the most gorgeous red I just found.  I meant it for the cast party, but I think breaking out a bottle for tonight wouldn't be inappropriate."

"I think I should mention that I haven't actually eaten since breakfast.  And I'd rather not be hung over tomorrow.  Call it vanity."  One bottle, with Chris, had the frequent tendency to become somewhat more than one bottle.

This was not a trait that Chris was unaware of.  "We'll stop for a spread on the way.  What's that cheese you used to get?"  One cheeky smile and then she had hopped down and was leading the way.

The back door of the theatre, where August had spent so many weeks, was exactly where Chris found him for the second time.  Applause could still be heard when she opened the door, fading out as it closed itself.

"They seemed to love it."

He was slumped ungracefully against the wall.

"I loved it."

His eyes were aimed for the ground.

"I passed a certain reviewer on the way out, he looked not-disgusted."

It was hard to imagine that his attention could be so focused thusly.

"I think the production was fabulous- even the lighting was evocatively revealing."

God knows she didn't find it at all extraordinary, though there must be an artist out there somewhere who would snatch the square of grimy concrete and declare it a monument to the modern decay of urban life, or a tribute to hopeless abandon or blueberry pie or some rubbish.

"You didn't like my joke?  Ok.  Are you going to come to the cast party?  I'm not saying you shouldn't… think… But a lot of people want to talk to you.  You should enjoy the afterglow, it was a good play you wrote."

He looked up too late to catch her eye.  He hadn't tried very hard. 

He should go to the cast party.  It would look odd if he didn't, and not entirely prudent regarding his burgeoning career.  There was an hour, but an hour wasn't time enough to think and resolve and become ready to face people he did not know.  Air fled his lungs as he stood, mind on the spare bottle of red that was stashed in the dressing room.

The dressing rooms were far in the back, so he was in and out before any cast member had returned.  He was grateful and relieved, though as the personable author of a play that had just had a very warm receival, it wasn't likely that he would be considered unwelcome.  Nonetheless, he retreated to his lonely stoop, where neither the man nor the bottle stopped to breathe before their first touch.

With half consumed he paused, watching the shimmering on liquid of yellow light from the streetlamp.  It was amazing that something so lovely could be the result of things so mundane: a dirty light bulb on a dented pole, a bottle of alcohol desperately manhandled by a pathetic excuse for a human being.

He watched the liquid move in tandem with his own failures at stillness.  In the ripples lay his breath, his heartbeat, the natural sway of his arm as he became more relaxed.

He felt the weight of the bottle, the chill of the evening, the concrete begin to gently sway beneath his feet.

He thought of wine he'd held long ago, in another city after another play.


	9. Chapter 9

Two notes:

First, a side effect of writing this in a serial fashion was that I veered off track. There's no good way to get back on it without reworking most of the story, but I felt first I owed an ending to the characters, to myself, and to everyone who ever read this story.

Second, now that this is a completed first draft, it's time for a second. It's a big job and I could very much use help. If you'd like to beta, please drop me a line- my email is in my profile. At any rate, I thank everyone in the ship for being awesome, and all the writers for such amazing stories.

Chapter 9

He burned.

Grace wasn't sure if it was him or herself: the second would be a bit of a disappointment and the first was no sure thing either but she didn't really care at that moment because she knew what came next.

She had sat behind him throughout the play, knew the back of his head even after all these years. He had never turned around and when he got up and left, during the applause, she turned away, afraid suddenly to see his face, to maybe have him see her face, there in a room with hundreds of people who now knew so much about them but knew nothing. It had been four years and she hadn't seen his face but that didn't matter much because she had just seen everything he felt and had felt for those four years, had seen everything he remembered of a time when she had been so wrapped up in herself and her imagination of who he was that she wouldn't have known if he had bared everything.

And she was looking at the back of his head now, the hair a little too long, resting on the collar of his overcoat as he stared at the bottle in his hand. He was still, but for small movements, and she knew which rhythms were his and which were the wind's because the same wind was playing with her and she could feel the bottle rocking in her hand. Slowly it swirled and the faint colored light hit her cheek and she could feel the burning from where she stood five feet behind, in the open doorway.

It is a writer's job to know the next line of dialogue, the next action, and Grace was a writer and she knew what came next.

She let the door close behind her, the soft click a cue.

"Chris, please."

His voice was tired and flat but under the surface was pleading and pain, a passion she didn't remember but which reminded her of why she had loved him.

He turned slowly, and she held her breathe because she knew the actions and the words but she could only see a moment ahead- they were writing this together and he had as much say as she. They both owned this moment, but neither had control.

Eyes met over a bottle of wine. Grace knew everything from his play but she had known nothing. Now, in his eyes, she saw the years and in her eyes he saw his life. They both knew what came next and moved together without rush.

"Can I have a taste?" She placed one hand above his, felt his fingers brush against hers, smelled the wine and his soap and her perfume and the traffic above the heartbeats almost consumed by the breaths mingling in the air between them. The reflection off the wine flitted here and there and she could no longer tell what was him what was her what was the wind.

"You were...?" A loose shrug indicated the theatre but he wasn't asking this question.

"Yes."

"I've read all your stories. They're good. You're good." His eyes were not searching hers, but steady, and this made her smile.

"So are you." And she smiled because she had nothing to look for in him either. What was, was, and was not hiding.

"What did you think?" He was calm but he was nervous and this close she could feel the fire inside, see the flames behind his eyes.

"I think it was a good ending." And it was. The lead characters had lived on in each others minds, inspiring and driving by the gilded additions of memory as reality never could have.

It looked like he might pull back, but the wine was there between the, and neither could let go. "Not sad?"

"Sad. But it was right for the play. And you never answered my question."

The corner of his coat swept across her knee and it didn't matter where the motion begun. "What was that?"

"Can I have a taste?" Their voices had been low all along but now she whispered, not wanting to share with anyone but him, with nothing but the wine and the light and the wind that touched them.

"It's yours."

He let go of the bottle when she tugged and she had grown some so she didn't need to stretch quite so far for their mouths to be on a level. And this time there was nothing between them but air. The years sat by, intangible, surrounding them with support and cautious warning. And she kissed him for the second time and for the first time and there was no need to pull away because there was no one but themselves and they were alone.

Then she pulled back and she smiled and this time she had not taken anything but had offered a promise. Then he smiled and the woman who had been a girl who he had known was smiling back and he kissed her for the first time and the passion was on the inside and made the light contact more powerful than any kiss she had ever received, still filling her even after he pulled back.

"This is our ending?" He thought of structure and flow and balance and emotion and saw the past and the present and the years in between.

The hint of wine was on her tongue and she spoke with it in mind. "Of one play."

When a writer finishes a work a writer can do nothing but begin again; can never rest but must again put pen to paper. So she drank some wine and kissed him again and they stood there together with the back story to their lives a topic of unwitting discussion and nothing but the promise of blank sheets


End file.
